


Knowing Me Knowing You

by Ntjnke



Category: The Colbert Report, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Genre: Don't read if RPF squicks you, M/M, RPF is still FICTION, This is RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ntjnke/pseuds/Ntjnke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Stephen are both comedians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing Me Knowing You

**Author's Note:**

> Written mostly because of prompt love. [](http://fluffmonsterx.livejournal.com/profile)[**fluffmonsterx**](http://fluffmonsterx.livejournal.com/) was kind enough to fill mine, while [](http://raikuya.livejournal.com/profile)[**raikuya**](http://raikuya.livejournal.com/) and [](http://megantracey.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://megantracey.livejournal.com/)**megantracey** threw me a few when my brain had no ideas but wanted to write. Thanks and hugs, peeps.

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

 

 

_Knowing Me Knowing You_

 

There are very few places in the world where Jon Stewart lets go. He's the guy with the quick wit and pleasant smile. Honest sentiment is something reserved for his private life. Wearing his heart on his sleeve is not what he does. It's not who he is, and, being older now, he doesn't think it's a skill he'll ever perfect. Age and fatherhood have taught him how to be honest with himself about what's on his mind. Practice and a career in show business have helped him learn how to fashion his words so that his thoughts are conveyed with a clarity that often startles even him. But there's a difference between saying what you want to say, and saying what you need to say to get through.

It had been Friday. Late. The two of them got home hours ago, long after anybody in their right mind would have come trudging through the front door from their daytime jobs. But they had been busy. They had had meetings, planning to do, scripts to review, and it was always easier to do that together, to bitch about the work while asking the advice of the one person in the world who could truly grasp the magnitude of work dependent on making fun of serious business. Working with Stephen was often the respite in Jon's otherwise constantly taxing day. His smile hadn't changed over the years the had worked together. His presence, though, had matured from that of an optimistic puppy dog always looking to please into the comfort of a warm quilt or a favorite pair of slippers.

Knotting the string on his flannel pants, Jon snorted as he slipped his feet into his own pair of slippers. He very much doubted Stephen would appreciate being compared to his worn sheepskin house shoes.

That night, it had been almost too late. Stephen opened the apartment door still in his show suit because he had given up the pretense of undressing after a show years ago. Some part of his mind had come to grips with the idea that he looked damn good in the garb of the well-heeled social elite, and he had learned to wear the suit as easily as he wore the character. Behind him, Jon had trudged through the door in cargoes and a heavy winter coat, his baseball cap tucked lower over his eyes to lock out the cold, his hands still in gloves. When he had passed 50 still dressing like a teenager, he'd finally admitted that it was his fashion preference for life. Jon had slung his backpack down on the entryway table Stephen had bought for just that purpose and hung his keys on the hook by the door. Right next to Stephen's.

Stephen liked to cook when he got home. It didn't matter if they had had something to eat at the office, that neither of them were hungry. It was how he unwound. He would throw his book bag into the closet, usually to the painful crack of his laptop hitting the hardwood, and head toward the kitchen to heat up leftovers or to put a small pot of milk to boil for hot cocoa. He said it was a habit he had learned from his mother, one that had only made itself known once he'd had his own kids. Come home, start dinner, and go change into houseclothes. It embarrassed Stephen a little, having such a clearly domestic habit, but over the years Jon had begun to think of it as uniquely Stephen and uniquely touching, and he had been finding more of than not, that he couldn't sleep without a sip or two of hot cocoa before turning in . His doctor said it was a bad habit, terrible for his blood sugar. Jon thought he simply didn't understand.

Eleven o'clock on a weeknight, Stephen was in the shower, Jon was pouring the hot cocoa into mugs to cool a bit, and the apartment had the kind of quiet that speaks of extreme exhaustion and the comfort of the only place on earth called home. It was the sound of air coming through the heating vents, the tick of the gas stove settling down, the buzz of the electric clock that could only be heard when the house is empty of productive, living noise. Amidst all the sounds that signify complete quiet, Jon, in his juvenile work clothes, had sat on one of the hard lacquered stools Stephen loved so much, stirring his hot cocoa and waiting for his turn at the shower.

He had been tired. So tired.

In retrospect, maybe he should have known better. He had always been the type of man with a short temper, easy to anger even if he was slow to act. Jon was the kind of man who was constantly frustrated, even if the decades had finally taught him that frustration channeled into productivity paid the bills while frustration expressed as mindless anger only made his hair more gray. But whatever the reason, something about Stephen walking into the kitchen in his nightclothes, a soft pair of sweat pants and an old Chicago t-shirt, while talking on his cell phone rubbed him the wrong way.

They had done their time this week. They had both put in long enough hours, working until the cleaning staff had asked them to lock up the building after they were done. They hadn't even spent the last three weekends together. It was either the need for an out of state interview, or a production concern that needed Jon's hands on approach, or the kids they both swore they were going to parent, even if it was from further away than they had originally wanted. They had done their time, spent so many days apart, and now it was supposed to be just the two of them. In their quiet 20th floor apartment.

Them, and hot cocoa, and sleep under warm soft sheets until the two of them were actually well rested enough to want to get up.

The sight of Stephen on his phone, distractedly rubbing at his dripping hair irritated him. And the sharper tone of his voice as he talked to the other person on the line only coiled his anger tighter, until he found he was stirring his spoon faster and faster in his mug, angry that Stephen was working, angry that he was getting angry, angry that he was sitting on a stool and abusing a mug of beverage instead of telling Stephen to hang up for the night. Instead of letting him know it was time to disconnect.

Jon doesn't recall what he said. He thinks he asked Stephen to hang up. Maybe he said it was late and he'd like to go to sleep. It doesn't matter what he said, really, or even how he said it. What matters is the way Stephen looked up from his cell phone, his eyes a little too sharp, like he was telling a toddler or a misbehaving grandchild to shush while the grownups were talking. Like Jon was an intern who didn't know the importance of business calls, or like he didn't know that some things were important and had do be done in the middle of the night.

He figures that must have been it. He'd been tired.

The words he doesn't remember, but he does remember setting his spoon on his saucer, climbing down from the stool, and slamming his mug into the sink. He remembers Stephen putting his hand over the mic on the phone and asking him to keep it down, that he needed to concentrate on this call. He remembers the way his mouth felt hot and dry when he heard that and the uncontrollable need to make the buzzing from Stephen's phone _stop_.

Apparently, he had hung up Stephen's phone.

He'd just taken it from his hand, hit the red button, and slammed it on the kitchen island like a rejected toy instead of the expensive piece of digital hocus pocus that it was.

Stephen had yelled. Jon had yelled back, moving closer to prove his point.

It's not like this was their first fight. That wasn't what made it so bad. The two of them had known each other for years as colleagues and friends, and none of it would have been meaningful unless they'd occasionally disagreed. But those fights, the fights between friends, had always played out within the safety of walls built by social courtesy. They'd danced within the boundaries of appropriateness people learn as children. It was only after they had become Them that Jon realized, when it came to the personal side of self-expression, Stephen was just like him. He was usually funny and personable and sweet because, in some way, he needed to be. But when he was angry, he was ruthlessly honest.

That fight was when Jon first saw, from the other perspective, that every skill a comedian uses to please an audience is equally useful as a weapon, and that Stephen, like every comedian, is a frightening creature to anger. It had made Jon realize that, as Stephen's husband, he had been moved irrevocably from the Public to the Private circle, and as such he was going to hear Stephen's thoughts as they occurred to him, not as they were usually edited for the public.

Comedians insult like they joke: intelligently and with little respect for courtesy.

The first argument had been over the mortgage, and looking back, that had been stupid, too. They'd already committed to each other, to a lifetime together, but a contract for property and the presence of an accountant had turned what was supposed to be a happy moment into tinder for vitriol. Maybe it was because the numbers on the page spelled out so clearly that they had both lost their homes and families. Maybe the exchange of money defined too clearly how they were investing everything they were in a new reality where their lives would be tied to a 1500 sf apartment in Chelsea. Whatever the reason, the accountant had asked how they were going to pay for the property, Jon had reached for his checkbook, and Stephen's smile had slipped to let loose the oily demon of unchecked insult delivered with words.

Jon, of course, had answered in kind. He always did. He never could let something go.

 _...kind of asshole who confuses "check" for "home"_.

_...were a decent, hardworking guy. Now you're just a dick with money._

In the end, Stephen had bought the house. The apartment, even now, is in his name and Jon truly doesn't mind because, after that first fight, Stephen had grabbed his coat and his wallet, and at the sight of him _leaving_ Jon had felt his heart squeeze in his chest, shivering in a confused state of between racing and crushed. He realized that he didn't care if Stephen wanted to buy every stick of furniture in their house. In the end, all that mattered was that he had Stephen.

He'd said so, immediately, his words muffled by Stephen's soft cotton t-shirt, his hands clenched in the elastic of the worn sweatpants Stephen always wore at home. Stephen, that night, had understood and kissed his forehead while Jon kissed the hollow of Stephen's throat. They'd made up, and the next next weekend Stephen had picked out their black lacquered stools, then patiently stood at the register of the furniture store waiting for Jon to pay the bill. Problem solved. Grievances said, compromises negotiated, solution resolved.

This time, though, it had been different.

Maybe Jon had been too presumptuous. Years of being allowed anything by Stephen, every inexcusable action he could dream up and a few that they both considered blasphemous, had lead him to think he could let his irritation and sleepiness interfere with Stephen's career in a way he never had. It was another of their compromises. He and Stephen shared a history. Their roots went far back, were entwined, but Stephen was an independent entity now. His career was his own and Jon could advise, he could motivate, but he didn't control. And Friday night, he did. He made the conscientious decision that he'd had enough of Stephen's career for one night. It was interrupting his quiet, and he wanted to make the glare go away and the carrying tones of the television executive stop. He'd ended his discomfort at the source by pressing a button and forcing Stephen Colbert to transform into simply Stephen because he was tired. Because it was late, and they were supposed to slip into bed after cocoa.

When Stephen is angry, it starts in his feet and moves towards his mouth. His feet plant, his legs get tight, and when his hands clench into fists he forces himself to slow down, to breathe. If the insult isn't that bad, he shakes off the energy before it gets to his shoulders. He sends it back down to his feet, and paces to think about the other side's situation. Then he laughs it all away. But if the insult is bad, if his reaction to it is visceral, the tension climbs to his neck and blooms across his shoulders. There's a moment when he just looks at you, a tall, angry man with no hint of the jester he plays every day. That looks gives you a moment of respite from what's coming.

Friday night, Stephen had stood to the left of the kitchen island and just looked at him, his eyes moving from Jon's face to the phone on the countertop, his expression blank.

That's how Stephen starts a fight.

But Jon is worse. Because no matter whether he started things or not, regardless of whether he believes he's right or he regrets his words the moment they come out of his mouth, his first instinct is also to plant his feet. To become an immovable stubborn object and defend himself and his actions. So with Stephen looking at him, Jon had crossed his arms over his chest and met his husband's blank glare with a tilt of his chin to prove, through stance alone, that he was right, that Stephen was wrong, and that none of this would have happened if Stephen had understood that phone calls have no place in the Colbert Stewart home at 12:30am on a Saturday morning. That after cocoa came kisses, not contracts, and that Jon would never do anything so distracting unless he had meant it.

All the sounds of a silent house had pushed at them, egging them to say something, to not let an obvious nonverbal insult lie between them with a nonverbal confrontation. The clock over the side cabinet counted the seconds it took for Stephen to come up with a response to Jon's obstinance, and the _click-whirr_ of the dishwasher starting its cycle stated that they were wasting time.

Stephen had asked what Jon thought he was doing, Jon remembered. Stephen had stood there, half on half off the living room rug, his voice perfectly pitched to conversation level, as he asked a very simple question to which Jon had no simple answer. He remembers the way Stephen's eyes tracked around his face, looking for the reasoning behind the answer he thought was coming.

Jon answered by throwing a spark on an unlit bonfire.

Tonight Jon was shuffling around the apartment, wearing pajama pants and favoring his right foot as he walked because the back of his right shoe was broken, and stubborn as he was, he wasn't going to buy another pair until the back of the left shoe was broken as well. He wiped down the kitchen counters, made sure the dishwasher was set for the night, and after turning off the kitchen lights, he headed over to the living room to tuck the afghan into place, to double check the door wasn't only locked but deadbolted. It was a quiet night. A Monday night, and time for the two of them to go to bed.

That Friday, when Stephen had pushed and Jon had pushed back harder, the same room had been very different. The yellow light from their custom fixtures had seemed harsh, and the room had seemed too small to contain the escalating volume of their voices. Quickly, scarily, their voices went from conversational, to loud, to shouting, and Stephen, at his angriest, had made the windows shake and the neighbor upstairs take a broom to his floor to tell them it was late. Two in the morning on a Saturday and normal people were trying to sleep.

But they had ignored him, trading barb for barb, wounding quick and deeply with a precision that only someone who loves you can accomplish and with a ferocity that only someone who hates you can deliver.

_...no contacts in this business except a whore of an ex-boyfriend and a pet thatch who makes weird faces._

_...a nameless hack with deep pockets and a trick jaw. Your_ staff _was funny..._

_...is what you get when you try to serve charm as talent._

_...four expressions and three voices. Thank god for writing..._

_...40 years old, depended on your wife's part-time income to feed your child who..._

_...yes, all sixty-three inches. I think I noticed._

_...some credit for doing something new, something different, without riding the coattails of my best friends._

_...a daughter who calls her orthodontist "dad"..._

_...planes and gravity still haven't taught you humility..._

_...figured it was better to start over than deal with a genetic mistake that shared his face..._

Both of them were financially comfortable. There weren't the normal strictures of income or time or transportation to prevent one of them from leaving. A jacket, a visa card, and the goddamn phone were all Stephen needed to walk out that Friday. And since they had had the good sense to buy in a nice building with limited access, a doorman, and security, there had been no impetus for Jon to answer the door. Or even pick up the phone.

_Answer the phone, Jon. It's the little box on the table next to your pride._

That night Jon had taken a shower and slipped between their sheets with the sky turning the light shade of gray signifying that early Saturday morning had become actual Saturday morning. He clutched his pillow because he slept better on his left side and had never needed to buy an actual body pillow since Stephen did just fine. Exhaustion had pulled him down, weakening his muscles, leadening his eyelids, and diluting the worry he felt that Stephen was probably across town by now or maybe even at the studio. Sleep buried the fleeting thought that comedians are not, as people say, bad at relationships. Instead, he tossed and turned in his sleep dreaming about angry misfits who were good at relationships but who, during inevitable fights, had never learned to quite pull their punches.

It had taken three days.

It had been their first weekend entirely off in six weeks, and so Jon hadn't had any plans. He'd burned his eggs and settled on the couch to watch cable movies, ignoring the way his phone vibrated across the green surface of the sofa table Stephen's sister had bought them. When he felt a burning in his chest or a tightening of his muscles, he'd spread his notepads across the dining table and alternated between writing and pacing the short hallway between the kitchen and the bedroom. When he had felt a burning in his nose and a sharp pain between his eyes, he'd swiped across his face with his sleeve and stared at the digital clock on the front of his phone, checked the missed call list. Pride prevented an outgoing call.

Stephen came home on Monday. Jon was still sitting in the little arm chair to the right of their TV, unlacing his boots when he heard the rattle of keys in the lock, and while they saw each other when Stephen walked through the door, there was no eye contact. Just Stephen kicking off his loafers onto the small shoe stand. Him throwing his bookbag into the entry closet and the inevitable thump of the laptop case just barely saving it's precious digital contents. By the time Jon's jacket was on a hanger, milk was bubbling in a sauce pot. And by the time he'd cobbled together a few words to say, his cup was steaming on the counter and Stephen was locking the door to the bathroom, the shower making its wet splatter sound behind the door.

And now here they were. He was standing in the door of his own bedroom, in worn grey flannel pajama pants and an even more worn cotton t-shirt, sipping hot cocoa and considering the image of Stephen in bed, his tablet on the comforter over his knees. Stephen didn't look at him while he sipped and push-flicked his finger across the screen to shift its contents. Jon's mug made a clicking sound on the nightstand as he sat it in front of his alarm clock. He kicked off his slippers, leaving them right in front of the nightstand so he could find them effortlessly in the morning. A quick twist and he was in bed, under the covers. He didn't have to switch off his lamp. It was rarely on because Stephen kept his on for them both and the TV lit up the room while the both of them read.

There were very few places in the world where Jon Stewart relaxed. One was in front of the camera on the set of his TV show. After so many years, there was a timing and comfort to the whole process that was more pleasant than nerve wracking. Years of staff and crew had trained each successive member until the show moved seamlessly around him and all he had to focus on was entertaining the people in front of him. Which was all he ever wanted to do. All he'd ever wanted to do, even all those years ago when he'd moved to New York with a bookbag and $300.

The other place, his only solace against a world he felt he had to negotiate with his guards up, was right here. This bed, under a warm northern quilt, with Stephen on his left, his hair mussed from his shower, tasting like chocolate. But instead of sweet goodnight kisses, the two of them were sitting silently in their own bed, pretending they'd never been cruel to each other and that it was like any other work night. Lights off at 11pm. Jon stared at the ceiling while he listened to the sound of Stephen sipping from his mug.

"Stephen?"

Brown eyes met his, a quiet questioning expression perfectly balanced over the rim of his cup. Stephen never wore glasses after he took his shower. It left him half blind, but he said that he didn't mind it because as long as he could increase the font size on his tablet, it was an hour out of the entire day where he was allowed to be wonderfully, wonderfully vain. Jon had never begrudged him the habit because he loved Stephen's eyes and they way his hair curled over them when it was wet. Part of going to bed was watching the way that curl forced Stephen to blow first on his cocoa and then up at his fringe so he could read one last story before bedtime.

"Stephen, I'm sorry."

Stephen's lips pressed themselves into a barely noticeable thinner line before he nodded quickly. And while Jon watched, propped on his side, Stephen set his own mug down and powered off his tablet.

"I'm sorry, too." Leaning over the space between them, Stephen pressed a quick kiss to the space between Jon's eyebrows before reaching back to turn off his lamp. The room turned gray and Stephen settled down into their bed, shuffling a bit under the covers to get comfortable, to find just the right spot on his pillow. In the half-light of the city snaking past their blinds, Jon saw that Stephen was looking at him, and realized that their bed was the one place both of them felt comfortable, where they expected to feel truly happy. Leaning forward, he rested his right hand lightly on Stephen's belly and felt the whisper quick tightening of his abdomen under his touch. And when he felt Stephen relax under him, he leaned forward to brush his lips against Stephen's, just enough to share his breath with his husband.

Stephen's bedtime kisses were like candy. Sweet, sweet kisses he had waited years to call his own.

A soft exhale let him know that he was welcome. Jon's second, softer kiss told Stephen that he was thankful for the forgiveness, and while air moved between the two of them, Jon slid over and on top of the taller man to let himself sink into the beloved body beneath him.

Quick fingers tickled along the edge of Stephen's t-shirt, and at the soft rasp of his nod against the pillow, Jon raked his fingers up his lover's sides, lightly enough to tickle but hard enough to feel the flesh give under his path. With the shirt pushed up and out of the way, Jon bent his knees and lowered his head to place small kisses across the exposed skin, moving left to right and not pausing when Stephen's breath began to catch, began to move more shallowly.

"Jon…"

"Shhh."

A quick tug, and Stephen's hips lifted off the bed. A practiced pull, and his legs were bare and Jon's hands could roam over every inch of his lower body, scratching through the fine hair on his thighs, kissing the tender skin where his hip melted into his waist and nipping lightly at the softer skin there. He loved Stephen's shape. He loved the way every part of him fit so well in his hands or between his lips.

Stephen's knees fell open, and at the lost moan he heard, Jon found his place between Stephen's legs, kissing a tidy trail from his belly button up to his chest. Stephen sat up quickly to pull off his t-shirt completely, then laid back on his pillow, his lips wet and his gaze expectant. During sex, Stephen's eyes always shined. The suave, confident performer of the daytime became someone new, someone more eager and naïve who trusted everything to Jon. That look made Jon kiss each of Stephen's cheeks, and when his eyes fell closed, each eyelid.

"I love you."

Settling his weight against Stephen's pelvis, Jon placed his hands under Stephen's shoulders and kissed the right side of his neck. When the slow rocking of their hips started to steal his breath, Jon rested his head against Stephen's chest and let his hands cling to his shoulder blades. Warm, large hands came rest on Jon's back and a sharp thrust from below shook a low moan from him.

"I love you, baby, so much." Jon felt soft kisses pepper his hair and the hands on his back tighten as the thighs on either side of his hips started to clench.

Jon, safe now, closed his eyes and let his husband forgive him.


End file.
